


Hey Ho, The Wind and Rain

by gallifreyburning



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fobwatched Nine and Rose Tyler in the wilds of Northern England, alone in a manor house and living as Doctor John Smith and his housekeeper, Mrs. Tyler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Ho, The Wind and Rain

Inspired by [rubella-b's gorgeous art](http://ruebella-b.tumblr.com/post/58993989114/so-this-happened-i-really-must-be-feeling-this):

She’s young for a housekeeper, more of an age to be a scullery maid than anything. But she’s the only servant in the entire manor, save the cook and the aged man who serves as groom and groundskeeper. So she gets the title, and the courtesy of being called “Mrs. Tyler” instead of “Rose” when he addresses her. 

He doesn’t recall exactly when he gave her the position, either — can’t find the paperwork with her reference letters, can’t remember placing an ad for a housekeeper in the first place. But Mrs. Tyler is undeniably here, the manor’s bulky master key ring jingling at her hip as she walks these cold halls. She lives in his servant’s quarters, brings his meals to the dining room, lights the fires in the three rooms he frequents, somehow keeps his life in working order even though there isn’t anyone else to assist her in managing this behemoth of a house.

While Mrs. Tyler is indisputably competent at her duties, he occasionally finds her behavior peculiar.  Her affectatious manner of dress, pink frocks and a fob watch she never lets go of, it’s more appropriate for a young lady of means out for a country picnic than the housekeeper of a grand, isolated estate.

The first time he called her “Mrs. Tyler,” she burst into laughter and told him that surely he meant to address her mother. He stared at her in grave shock until her cheeks reddened and she excused herself; she has not balked at her honorific since.

When she thinks she’s alone, she sings while she works, and sometimes  _dances_ — if those movements could be labeled as such. He knows a quadrille or a reel when he sees one, even if he’s never indulged, but Mrs. Tyler seems to prefer freeform movements involving her hips and torso, wiggling like she’s in the midst of an epileptic fit. When he first witnessed this sort of performance, regarding her from the shadows just beyond the library door, his heart seized at first in concern and then (once he realized she didn’t need a doctor) started thumping again, blood flooding his cheeks and all manner of other places it oughtn’t.

In spite of these quirks, he has determined he will give her a sterling reference when it’s time for her to move on. A letter such as that, from a gentleman of his standing, and Mrs. Tyler will have no trouble securing her next position. Surely she must move on sometime soon, to a situation more suitable for someone of her age, her nature and abilities. This bleak corner of England, this grey stone house in this wilderness beyond York, tending to the daily needs of a gentleman so much older than herself, these things aren’t for the young of body or spirit. 

“Is there something wrong, Doctor?” she asks, forgetting to add the “Smith,” as she always does. He stopped reminding her when he realized it was a lost cause. Her hair is down today, golden waves brushing her shoulders. He averts his gaze from her face, shifting it to the simple plate full of beef and vegetables steaming on the polished mahogany table in front of him. The air is cold in the dining room, in spite of the fire flickering valiantly in the fireplace. He wonders if Mrs. Tyler is oblivious to the danger of catching a chill, with her neck exposed like that.

“Nothing at all, Mrs. Tyler. This looks excellent. My compliments to Cook,” he says, pulling the napkin into his lap in a crisp movement.

“Cook is off to York, to visit her sister this weekend,” Mrs. Tyler reminds him. “I nearly killed myself trying to light that wood stove. My mum’ll never believe it, me cooking without a micro –“ (her eyes widen and she coughs violently) “—without any help.” She looks inordinately pleased with herself, tongue caught between her teeth, as though she singlehandedly fetched fire down from Olympus in order to cook this beef for him, but then her expression shifts into something grim. “If I ever see her again.”

“You could always visit home, a quick trip to – to –“ …Where is she from? The Doctor ought to know this. He  _does_  know this. Why can’t he remember?

“London,” she says. He frowns.

“Of course, London. To visit your mother. I could spare you for a month.” It would be at least that long, from York to London and back. Mrs. Tyler, fending for herself in public coaches on muddy roads down the length of England; himself, rattling around alone in this house and waiting for her to return, nothing to keep him company except the echo of his own voice.

It’s a bald lie, that he could spare her for any amount of time. He would be lost if she was gone for an hour, much less a month.

Mrs. Tyler is gracious enough not to call out his falsehood. “Maybe after the New Year or something.” It’s only mid-August now. The sour knot of nerves in the Doctor’s stomach loosens. The corners of her mouth turn up, and he realizes she’s smiling in response to his pleased grin. A contented silence lingers between them, until her cheeks pink just enough to match her frock and she drops her gaze to the floor, hands clasped together around her silver pocketwatch like they’re folded in prayer. “D’you need anything else, before I return to the kitchen?”

“No.”

She nods in acknowledgement and leaves the room. The grey walls, brown table and chairs, and pale fire envelop him, make him shiver. The sound of his own breath accompanied by the quiet crackle of burning wood behind him, he cuts into his supper.

~~~~~ 

Usually, his nightmares wake him in the middle of the night.

This time it’s something else.

A keening noise from somewhere inside his own house, grinding and groaning like all the spirits of hell risen to call him home. Frozen in utter terror, he stares at the dark curtains draped around his bed, straining to determine where the noise is coming from.

Upstairs, he’s certain of it. The attic of the east tower.

Wrestling his fear into submission, he throws back the bedcurtains and lights a candle. Then he pulls on a damask banyan over his nightshirt, tying it tight before venturing out into the pitch-black corridor.

Candle casting a paltry circle of yellow light, he pads his way through rooms and up staircases. The noise drifts down once more, a lonely wail that tugs at his gut, pulls him forward as surely as a lover’s call. How could he have felt fear at waking to this noise? He can’t put name to it, can’t conjure an image of the creature that makes such a call of distress, but he knows down to the soles of his two feet that he must answer it.

Whatever it is, it’s his responsibility. He’s the one who has to care for it.

He comes around the last curve of the tower stair, stepping onto the landing, just in time to catch sight of Mrs. Tyler bolting the heavy oak door to the storage area.

There’s no keening call anymore, everything is quiet as a mausoleum.

She hooks the large keyring back at her waist and turns around. A hand claps to her mouth and she muffles her own scream at the sight of him, pressing herself back into the door as though he’s a monstrosity.

“Oh my god, you scared the daylights out of me,” she says in a rush, pressing her hands to her stomach and straightening up. Her words tremble, as do her fists. “Have you – have you been there long?”

“What’s in that room?” he says. “What were you doing in there?”

Her generous lips press together in a thin line. “Doctor, it’s the middle of the night. You ought to be asleep.”

“There shouldn’t be anything in that room except my great-grandmother’s dowry furniture. I demand to know what you were doing. Give me the key.”

Mrs. Tyler steps sideways, feet quiet against the wooden floor. She’s barefoot. She’s in her nightgown, bare ankles and toes poking out beneath the frilly edge of cotton, he realizes in a flash of mortification. That sentiment is swallowed whole by his curiosity, by the silent call of whatever lurks in the darkness behind that locked door.

“No,” Mrs. Tyler replies, full of resolute sternness. He might be fooled, except for the fact that she shivers under the weight of his cold stare.

“I’ll have it now,” he repeats, crossing the room in a few long strides, until he looms over her, trapping her against the wall. He’s aware of his own physical presence, of his naturally grim demeanor; he’s often used them to keep people at a distance, but rarely used them like this, to intentionally frighten.

She stares up at him, honey-brown eyes wide and startled. She’s stopped breathing, the curve of her breasts pale and still as a statue’s in the plunging, unbound neckline of her nightgown. Although her surprise is palpable, and her trepidation clear, she doesn’t back down.

His hand moves toward her keyring, and she twists her body sideways, away from him.

“Doctor,” she hisses, chiding. The quiver in her voice is hardly noticeable; her audacity is practically offensive. “Doctor  _Smith_. This isn’t appropriate.”

“A housekeeper, keeping secrets in her employer’s very house, hiding things from the man who pays her wages … you would call that appropriate, Mrs. Tyler?” he retorts, his voice a low growl. “Give me the keys, or I shall take them by force.”

To his utter shock, she laughs. A genuine sound, a loud burst of light in this sinister moment.

“Doctor, I don’t believe you could,” she replies, tipping her head back against the wall to gaze at him. Her mouth curls into an indolent grin. All of the menace he could muster, and she deflects it with such ease. Sees straight through him, calls his bluff. There’s still a touch of fear deep in her eyes, but it’s gone entirely from her face. “Although you could try, I suppose.”

On the last word, Mrs. Tyler does something with her hip that he doesn’t quite follow, a quick rolling motion that makes the keys jingle toward him. Her grin widens as she tracks his eyes, the way he stares helplessly at the cloth belt slung low over her pelvis, the keys and pocketwatch there for the taking. All he has to do is reach out, touch her.

Bringing his attention back to her face is a monumental task. When he blinks, he sees her against the back of his eyelids, body swaying and twitching rhythmically as she sings and dances all by herself in the library, duster in one hand.

“I want,” he says, words croaking out of his throat in dry, desperate need. “I want to see what you’ve hidden inside that room.”

“You told me I couldn’t let you inside,” she replies, tilting her head sideways. There’s a wistful sadness in the way she regards him. “You forbade it.”

“I did not,” he blurts out in surprise, frowning. “I have no memory of giving any such order. Why would I tell you to lock away things inside my own house?”

She shrugs, collarbones shifting in the flicker of the candle, skin smooth and pale as milk. “Doctor, you gave me the keys and told me to keep the things in that room safe, even from you. _Especially_  from you.” Her chest rises slowly as she draws a deep breath, like she’s bracing herself. “You’ve forgotten some things over the last few weeks. I suppose this room, and the order you gave about keeping it locked, was part of what you forgot.”

The news knocks him back. He shuffles away a step, shoulders slumping and frown deepening. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember forgetting.” The absurdity of the statement only makes it sound … sad. Mournfully whinging, like a schoolboy who’s not ready for an exam.

He must look as lost as he sounds, because Mrs. Tyler matches his step away with a step forward, reaching out to touch his elbow, sympathy painted across her lovely features.

“It’s late, you’re tired. We ought to go to bed, Doctor. I mean—I mean to our  _own_  beds. I should—do you remember how to get to your room? “

“Of course,” he snaps, more churlish than he ought to be, snatching his elbow away from her touch.

She straightens her back, folding her hands behind her back. Every time she moves, the keyring rocks back and forth against her pelvis, dull metal glinting in the candlelight.

Mrs. Tyler has his life right there, bound to her body. The keys to every one of his nooks and crannies, his house and his history and his secrets all at her fingertips. A history that she is more familiar with, apparently, than he is.

“Good night, Doctor,” she says, words and demeanor formal even in her unlaced nightdress, hair unbound; even with him standing in front of her, broad shoulders bowed, skinny hairy calves poking out from his long nightshirt. The two of them the only living creatures in this cold cavernous house.

“Mrs. Tyler.” He has no idea if the words are a dismissal, or a question. Perhaps a plea.

“Hope you like uncooked oatmeal for breakfast,” she says. “I don’t know if I’ll manage to get the stove lit again. We might starve before Cook gets back from town.” She steps around him, careful, leaving warm air in her wake. “See you in the morning.”

Mrs. Tyler disappears down the stairs like a ghost.


End file.
